feels good dead.

I love hearing you dismiss me
at four in the morning.
Dull and pukey,
I mumble something you could never buy.


Hearing that sharp-knife sentence
about how someones waiting,
and you have to go,
is cold and comforting
like the bathroom floor:
cold tile on my face.

I'm bored.

While watching the tv turn itself on and off,

I make matters out of my own hands.

Like a burn on my tongue

I say your name.

effortless

i step over the mirrors

that lay on my bedroom floor

facing up like pools of glass in the carpet.

i never hung them because 

i dont like nails

still, i like luck, and never misstep:

these next seven years are gonna be big. 

the patron god of little boys on playgrounds 

hides up on my ceiling, 

smiling.

jackie said write when i said eat.

The scissors were not sharp

and the table not level

when you cut me out of your life.

This is how it felt:

like someone took a paper crane and tried to make it into a paper snowflake; cutting all sorts of holes that would never be symmetrical when it opens up. I'm opened up. 

We didn't even kiss.